In the morning when Dawn starts the electric kettle it sounds like a rocket about to launch, slowly building pressure until it snaps free from the launch pad and lifts off. She pulls it down by the handle and sets it on the counter, and then pours the water to make tea. I lay in bed with the dog beside me on the floor, both of us getting up but deciding instead to lay back down. And as I lay there with the clock dinging downstairs and the acknowledgment of Wednesday, I’m content without much of a schedule. And the thought of yet another job coming soon, and another chance to remake myself.

Categories: Memoir, prose

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, short form, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer, work-life balance